


Green Alien

by anr



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-22
Updated: 2006-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's pretty sure T'Pol drunk is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Alien

**Author's Note:**

> Season Three.
> 
> Vulcan translations in mouseover.
> 
> Request: T'Pol accidentally getting drunk, including: drunk munchies, attempted seduction that fails, attempting to go out the airlock, temporarily passing out in the lift, fascination with a zipper, and mistaking Trip's quarters for her own and passing out in his bed.

  


* * *

_19:15_

  


Trip is used to expecting the unexpected when entering Phlox's infirmary. Zantarian vines in the middle of an accelerated growth cycle... the Pyrithian bat loose from his cage... even Phlox himself, on one rare occasion that Trip would love to forget, in his birthday suit...

... but this, _this_ is new.

"Whoa!" He grabs her upper arms instinctively as she slams into him the moment the doors open, her momentum causing him to back up a couple of steps. "Where's the fire, Subcommander?"

She glares at him. "Ti'amah!"

"Right." Like _that_ means anything to him. Looking behind her, he sees Phlox hurrying across. "Uh, Doc?"

"Subcommander, _please_." The doctor's tone is reproachful. "You need to rest."

She redirects her glare towards Phlox. "Ponfo mirann!" she says, and while Trip has no clue as to what that means, the general gist comes across pretty damn clear. He smirks.

"Problems, Doc?"

"You could say that." Ignoring T'Pol's glare, he reaches out and gently pulls her away from Trip. As he leads her back towards a nearby bed, T'Pol bats at his grip. "Stop it," he tells her firmly, before glancing back at Trip apologetically. "The spatial disturbances in this sector seem to be playing havoc with her neuro-chemistry."

Trip watches as the subcommander staggers, and almost falls, as Phlox coaches her to climb back onto the bed. "She looks drunk," he comments, mostly joking, and is surprised when Phlox nods.

"A fair enough simplification."

"You're kiddin'."

"It's actually quite fascinating. Her norepinephrine and dopamine turnover has increased significantly, as has the beta-endorphin production in her hypothalamus. If she were Human, my first assumption would naturally be an alcohol intake."

"Huh." He watches her closely as Phlox orders her to stay put before moving away, and wonders, briefly, how much time and effort it would require to get a digital recorder in here (or, at the very least, Travis' camera). He's pretty sure T'Pol drunk is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

"Commander?"

"Yeah?" Dragging his gaze away from T'Pol, he finds the Doc next to him, an expectant look on his face.

"I'm assuming you came here for a particular reason...?"

"What? Oh, right." Raising his left arm, he pushes up his sleeve, revealing a burn that runs the length of his forearm. "One of the plasma conduits tried to give me a kiss." He can't help but glance towards T'Pol again. "Is she going to be alright?"

Phlox gestures for him to take a seat and, once he's settled, starts to scan the limb. "The effects seem directly related to the sector we're passing through. As soon as we leave it, I see no medical reason why she won't make a full recovery." He lowers the scanner. "The conduits... could their sudden affection have anything to do with our current route?"

"Nah. We're only crossin' the corner of this area of space -- no more than a night's travel at our current speed -- and all the preliminary scans Engineerin' ran before enterin' the area suggested there'd be no undue surprises."

There's a sudden thump from the other side of the room, and Trip turns to see T'Pol sitting on the floor beside the biobed. Based on her almost-surprised expression, he'd bet his next shore leave that she just fell off of it.

He turns back to Phlox. "Of course," he admits, barely withholding a wide grin, "the scans could've been wrong."

  


* * *

_21:32_

  


_"Engineering to Tucker."_

He punches the comm button on his desk console. "Tucker here."

_"I think you'd better come down here, Sir,"_ says Rostov apologetically, _"the coolant regulators are spiking again."_

He frowns at the reports he's only half-way through. "How high?"

_"Enough to seek compensation from the reserves."_

"Damn. Okay." Pushing aside the reports, he gets to his feet. "Run a level three diagnostic and let the Bridge know we may need to start draggin' our feet. I'm on way."

_"Yes, Sir."_

"Tucker out."

As he makes his way from his quarters to the nearest turbolift, he runs through everything they know about this sector of space (not nearly enough, apparently), what possible effects it could be having on his engines (unfortunately, just about anything), and what he'll try to counteract them (hopefully, _something_ ).

His train of thought derails slightly, however, as the turbolift doors open on T'Pol.

"Subcommander," he says, stepping inside. "You're looking better."

"I am fine." She frowns a little though, as if surprised by his observation. Absently, he wonders if she even remembers him being in sickbay earlier.

"And speakin' English now, too."

Her eyebrow arches. "One of us has to."

"Ouch." He grins good naturedly, the expression widening further as he remembers his destination. "Say, you doin' anythin' right now? 'Cause I might have somethin' in Engineerin' that could benefit from your --"

Without warning, T'Pol pitches forward, slumping against him. He only just manages to lock his arms around her before she sinks to the floor.

"-- T'Pol!" Adjusting her awkwardly in his grip, he tries to see her face. "T'Pol? Hey, Subcommander!" No response. Without thinking, he shifts her up into his arms and redirects the turbolift back to E-deck, finding his way into the sickbay roughly ninety seconds later.

"Commander! What happened?"

"We were talkin' in the turbolift and she just passed out on me." He settles T'Pol onto the biobed gently, and then stands back as the Doc moves in to look her over. "Why'd you let her go if she was still sick?"

Phlox doesn't even spare him a glance. "I didn't," he says. "She slipped out when the Captain brought Porthos in. I was just about to go find her." He pauses and adjusts the scanner in his hands, and then straightens with a cheerful expression. "She's fine."

Trip crosses his arms. "She's _unconscious_ ," he counters.

"Asleep, if anything," says Phlox, smiling. "Nothing to worry about."

He looks between T'Pol and Phlox disbelievingly for a long moment. "You sure?"

"Absolutely." Still smiling, Phlox moves away from T'Pol. "If you like, however, you can always stay and keep an eye on her yourself." He opens a glass canister and extracts what looks like a piece of black rubber hosing. "Porthos is apparently feeling quite nauseous and an extra pair of hands around the place certainly wouldn't be unwelcome."

Trip watches the black... _thing_... in Phlox's hands wriggle obscenely and shudders. "Ah, sorry, Doc. Engineerin' calls, you know?" Which, he remembers suddenly, is actually the truth. _Shit_. With a final glance at T'Pol, he backs out of sickbay quickly. "Later."

  


* * *

_23:59_

  


He's on his way back from checking in with the Bridge when he sees her. She's standing off to the starboard side of the corridor and, normally, he wouldn't even think twice about that, he'd simply keep on walking (and maybe pause long enough to nod or smile in her direction, but that'd be about the extent of it), except normal hardly ever seems to apply out here in the Expanse. He stops.

"Evenin' Subcommander," he says.

She doesn't acknowledge him, and he watches her fingers dart relentlessly over the exposed keypad.

"Anythin' I can do to assist?"

Each combination she types produces a red light and a faint error tone, and he edges closer, his shoulder finding the edge of the panel she's working on as his body angles towards hers.

"Subcommander?"

Still no response, and when the red light and error tone comes yet again, he decides enough is enough. Stepping in front of her, he blocks her access to the control panel. "Alright, _stop_!"

She glares up at him. "Move."

Shaking his head, he crosses his arms. "Not unless you give me a damn good reason to."

"I'm hungry."

He blinks, and knows he can't of heard her right. "Excuse me?"

If anything, her glare deepens. "Hunger is a universal constant, Commander," she snaps. "One that even _you_ should be able to comprehend. Now please move so that I may --"

"Kill yourself? And -- quite possibly -- endanger the lives of god knows how many others on this ship?"

"I highly doubt," she says, eyebrow arching, "that my need for plomeek soup could cause a fatality."

"Oh, _really_?"

"Yes." Her tone implies that _he_ is the one not in his right senses, as opposed to her, and he'd probably laugh if this weren't so serious.

To their left, there's the sound of approaching footsteps, and he glances away from her to see two of Reed's finest coming towards them, phasers already drawn. _Great_.

"Step away from the control panel please, commanders," orders Hutchins, Bronson nodding his agreement, and T'Pol inclines her head.

"Thank you, Ensign," she says, before turning back to Trip with a look that clearly states 'I told you so'.

He gives her a look of his own, only his says 'you're crazy'. Grabbing her arm, he forcibly moves her down the hall. "Just testin' the alert system for attempted overrides," he lies, as he pushes T'Pol between the two men. "You can tell Reed the response times need some work."

He doesn't wait for them to reply, just keeps T'Pol moving until they're round the corner and fast coming up on sickbay.

"Release me immediately!" She twists against his grip until he has no choice but to let her go. Thankfully, the doors to sickbay have already sensed their approach and opened for them. He shoves her across the threshold. "You cannot stop me from eating!"

"No," he agrees, placing one hand on each door jamb and forestalling any thoughts she might have about leaving, "but I can stop you from tryin' to walk home for lunch."

Behind her, Phlox hurries over. "Commander?"

"Caught her mistakin' an airlock for the mess hall," he explains.

Phlox pales. "Oh dear."

"Yeah." He watches as Phlox steps forward to draw T'Pol away from him, and the door, and leads her back towards the biobed. "Why the hell do you keep lettin' her sneak out anyway?"

Pushing aside the still drawn curtain, Phlox assists her back onto the bed. "As she's leaving surreptitiously, Commander, I'm obviously not _letting_ her do anything of the sort. I thought she was asleep."

"Enough!" T'Pol glares at them both in turn. " _I_ require nourishment."

Trip rolls his eyes. "What you need, Subcommander, is some heavy-duty restraints." He pushes himself away from the doors and waits for them to seal before walking away.

  


* * *

_02:13_

  


_"Phlox to Commander Tucker."_

He's still awake, but only just. Reaching up blindly, he hits the comm button on the panel above his head. "Go ahead, Doc."

_"I was wondering if perhaps I might trouble you for a moment of your time."_

Dropping the personnel report he was trying to finish before he fell asleep, he stares at the ceiling. "Somethin' wrong?"

_"No, no."_ There's a brief pause. _"Well, not **exactly**..."_

And something in Phlox's tone tells Trip all he needs to know. "I thought I told you to use restraints," he mutters, rolling out of bed, and Phlox mumbles what sounds suspiciously like, _I did_. He sighs. "When she'd leave?"

_"About two minutes ago."_

"I'm on my way. Tucker out."

Pulling on his uniform, he finds himself muttering unpleasant things about the Vulcan species -- and their apparent intolerance for spatial disturbances -- as he tries to work out where she might have headed this time. He _really_ does not want to spend the rest of his night searching the entire ship.

When he opens his door, however, he finds her standing in the corridor, looking for all the world like she's been waiting for him.

"You," she says, crossing her arms.

"Me," he agrees. He tugs the zipper on his uniform further up, and runs a quick hand through his hair before pointing down the hall. "Sickbay."

"I would prefer to --"

He takes a step closer to her, his door sliding shut behind him. " _Now_."

A disdainful look is sent his way, but she turns on her heel and starts walking. He falls into step behind her.

Half-way there, she stops suddenly, and his hands find her hips briefly as he tries to stop himself from crashing into her. She turns in his grip, her palms finding his chest.

"I do not need your assistance is locating the infirmary, Commander." she says sharply. "I am not _impaired_."

"Right," he says, looking down at her. She's staring at his chest and he can't help but wonder what's so damn fascinating about his zipper. "You're a regular paragon of good judgment."

"Thank you." She sounds pleased by his agreement, and her hands move up towards his shoulders.

"Tonight, clearly, bein' an irregularity." He takes advantage of her sudden glare to spin her forwards again and push her into moving. "Let's go."

They walk the rest of the way to sickbay in silence. He almost enjoys it.

  


* * *

_04:38_

  


Someone is talking to him.

With an irritated sigh already forming, Trip slowly forces himself towards consciousness and opens his eyes...

... only to find a pair of brown eyes not two inches from his own. "Jesus Christ!" Flinching back, his head strikes the bulkhead beside his bed with a resounding thud.

"-- and leave immediately."

Bringing up a hand to rub at the bruise already forming on the back of his head, he stares at T'Pol uncomprehendingly. "Leave?" he repeats dumbly, as he tries gather his bearings.

"Yes."

"Leave where?" He doesn't think they're under attack -- the emergency lighting hasn't been activated, there's no ship-wide alert sounding, and he's pretty sure Rostov would've comm'd him personally if the engines had started kicking up a fuss again -- but that doesn't necessarily mean there's not something _else_ wrong. After all, T'Pol wouldn't be waking him up at -- he glances a look at the chronometer across the room -- at four in the morning for nothing.

"My quarters."

" _Your_ quarters?!" Like a jolt of pure adrenaline, he feels the remains of sleep dissipate instantly at her claim. He sits up quickly, only just remembering in time to duck away from the shelf above him before he gives himself another chance for a concussion.

"Yes," she says, and it's only then that he realises that, a, she's glaring at him, b, she's in his bed --

At least, he's pretty sure it's his bed... He takes a moment to glance quickly around the room, and is reassured by the presence of his personal belongings.

\-- and, finally, _c_ , that tonight she's not really her usual self.

"T'Pol," he starts, running a hand through his hair, "what --"

"We will discuss this breach of propriety in the morning," she says, cutting him off. "Please lock the door on your way out."

And with that, she rolls over onto her other side, facing away from him.

"-- the hell," he finishes anyway. He stares at her back, tired and confused and annoyed and not entirely sure which one of those is fuelling him more. "T'Pol." No response, and he risks possible life and limb by poking her shoulder. "Subcommander!"

Still nothing. Leaning over her, he discovers her eyes closed, features relaxed, and looking -- for all intents and purposes -- like she's been asleep for hours instead of something just shy of fifteen seconds.

"Great," he mutters, shifting so he slap the comm panel near his head. "Just fuckin' great."

_"Phlox."_

"Hey, Doc," he says tiredly.

_"Ah, Commander."_ The usually unflappable doctor sounds considerably flapped to Trip. _"I'm afraid this isn't --"_ There's the unmistakable crack of something breaking in the background. _"-- a very good time. I'm having some --"_ Screeching noises drown out most of what Phlox says next. _"-- bat has escaped from his cage, and I'm also missing --"_

"One drunk Vulcan?"

_"You found her again."_ Phlox's relief is palpable. _"Oh, how wonderful."_

"Yeah." He eyes the sleeping intruder dubiously. "Wonderful."

He listens as what sounds suspiciously like Porthos' barking echoes over the comm, followed by more screeching and breaking noises, and finally what he'd guess is Denobulan cursing.

"... Doc?"

_"Oh, yes. Commander. I'm sorry."_ There's a brief moment of pure silence, and Phlox takes a deep breath. _"I don't suppose..."_

He works it out in his head. First, he'll have to climb over her and find, at the very least, his shoes. Then he'll have to wake her up and convince her to follow him. Next will be the walk back to sickbay itself... and he'll probably have stay for awhile when they get there to make sure she doesn't wander off again since Phlox is obviously too distracted to do so himself... and then finally making his way back here in the hopes of, maybe, one more hour's sleep.

He sighs loudly, and knows that, subconsciously, this decision was made well before he comm'd sickbay. "We'll see you in the mornin', Doc."

_" **Thank** you, Commander,"_ says Phlox, and then disconnects without another word.

Calling himself a hundred different kinds of fool, Trip eases himself back down and resolutely tugs the majority of the sheet back onto his side of the bed.

With impeccable accuracy, T'Pol kicks him in the shin.

"Propriety my ass," he mutters under his breath, kicking her back. "First thing in the mornin', I'm tellin' the Captain to authorise warp five outta this sector, the engines be damned." He shifts restlessly for a moment, trying to get comfortable. "And _then_ I'm gonna spend the next six months, at least, remindin' you of this night every chance I get."

He takes a moment to savour that last part, and then closes his eyes as he feels himself start to drift away again.

T'Pol stretches a little in her sleep, her body just brushing up against his, and despite everything he's just decided, a smile stretches across his lips at the contact.

All things considered, he's had nights end worse. 

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/244085.html>


End file.
